Chapter 7: What's in a Name

Remington dropped Laura at home, then left again for the grocery store and pharmacy, guessing accurately that his introspective partner and wife would need some time alone with her thoughts. For his part, he was thrilled beyond measure. Scared senseless, but thrilled none the less.

A child. Their child. Daughter or son? Who would he or she look like? Would she possess his artistic bent or her mother's musical hand? Would he be a baseball player like his mother or a football player like himself? Blue eyes or brown? Black hair or auburn? Tall or petite? The possibilities for daydreams in the months ahead were virtually endless.

He'd no doubt he'd smiled like a fool when collecting Laura's prenatal vitamins from the pharmacist. Could one blame him?

His smile faded in the market as he ticked off everything Dr. Kerr had told them about diet. The ginger tea, a trick he'd picked up for nausea sometime during his childhood in Ireland, he'd given Laura that morning had stayed down. He tossed several boxes of it into his cart. Eight more weeks of this? Possibly an entire pregnancy? She couldn't afford to lose further weight as it was. While he chewed on that worry he tossed boxes of peppermint and chamomile tea into his cart as well. Tea and toast. Real panic began to set in then. What type of bread? White, honey wheat, whole wheat, multigrain, sourdough, rye, pumpernickel. What bloody type of bread? The doctor hadn't specified. So in the end, he tossed a loaf of each into the cart. Crackers, another invitation for disaster. Did the man mean saltines, captains wafers, soda crackers, or those wheat ones? A box of each kind was tossed into the cart.

Meal preparation was another nightmare in the making. Milk, fat and grease all culprits in prolonging or encouraging nausea and vomiting. Grease was easy enough to avoid, as he rarely fried anything. But milk and fat? Had the doctor any idea exactly how many foods contained one, the other or both in some manner? How challenging it made preparing a meal for a man like him? He fussed about the market for quite a while before it occurred to him the reasons for the changes to the menus, then began grinning again.

It was while he was carefully examining the selection of broccoli at his disposal that he'd stopped cold and puffed out his chest, shifting from foot-to-foot, a smug smile lighting his face as he realized Laura hadn't been off the pill for a full cycle before she was with child. With a waggle of his brows, he mentally thumped himself on the back. It did a man's ego good to know he'd accomplished the task at hand with such ease.

Miles away in their home in Holmby Hills, Laura scrunched up her face and gave a mournful groan as the same thought occurred to her. The man would be prancing about like a peacock, his head the size of the Goodyear blimp if he put it together. He'd be ready to announce her pregnancy to the entire world: Ah, see, I'm a man. Got the little woman knocked up right quick. He'd be impossible to control, and what she wanted most at the moment was for this to be just theirs, at least for now.

A child. Their child. Not even four months ago, the idea had initially scared the living hell out of her. She'd asked herself every question there was, had nursed every doubt. It was too soon. They hadn't even figure out how to be married yet, so how would they figure out how to be parents? Where would their child be while they were at work? How would they spend sufficient time with their child, given the demands of the Agency? How much would he expect her to give up? An endless list of questions and worries racing through her mind.

And now? Oh, she'd been shocked by Kerr's announcement, there was no denying that. At Christmas when she'd given Remington her pills to do with as he pleased, she'd known pregnancy was always a possibility from there forward. Just somehow in the months since, it wasn't something she'd dwelled on. And in her eyes, that was a good thing, for it was an indication of how far they'd come.

She could see that growth in every aspect of their relationship. The home they owned together. The business they owned together. Their routines. Plans for the future put into action. Even in how she referred to him.

In those first months after Ashford, she'd referred to him as 'Rem'. A nickname, she'd said, when she began to use it, something between just them, an intimacy. She'd used the name liberally during the first five months of their marriage. And gradually, it went on its way. She hadn't even realized herself at first. It was only in finding his father, his 'real name', that she'd put the pieces together.

Ten months ago, if Remington had been handed the birth certificate bearing the name Sean James Fitzgerald she would have celebrated, pushed him to take on what had been his since birth. It's your name, she would have insisted. But it wasn't, wouldn't have been to him. A name bestowed, not earned, even if it came to the him by hand of his parents. Whoever Sean James Fitzgerald was, it hadn't been him for nearly three and a half decades. He wasn't even Harry, the name that had tied him to Daniel and therefore had been his with some consistency the longest. At the end of the day, another name bestowed. It belonged to the hellion pulled from the streets and transformed at the hand of his personal Professor Higgins. It belonged to a teen, then young man, who chose a life because it offered a way out. If anything, the name belonged to Daniel, not him.

But Remington Steele? The name may have been of her creation, and, perhaps, in its tie to her it held that much more value. But it was so much more than that to him. A name never bestowed, at one time perhaps stolen, later temporarily leant. What the name represented to him was choice. He chose the life of Remington Steele not because he'd had so few options before him, but because it was the life he wanted. He chose to change everything about himself so that he would feel worthy of the name. It was the name he'd pinned the dream of a future to, a future he'd never once dared to dream of before. A name, a life, chosen then earned.

It had taken her a while to believe this life they were building wasn't just another figment of her imagination, much as the name and mythical figure once were. Rem, the nickname, not so much an intimacy, but more another way of distancing herself, reminding herself not to believe. For those first four months of marriage, she still hadn't quite trusted this was what he really wanted. Believed he thought it was what he wanted, yes, that. But once his dream became reality would it endure? A kidnapping, recovery, surgery, a pregnancy scare, their first holidays, a search for the truth, Minor's appearance, finding a father. Each event only serving to cement reality. And the reality was this was who they were, what they'd been meant to be. Deep in her bones she now knew this was not only what he wanted but he'd waited for.

He was Remington Steele, in heart, mind, life and deed. Friend, partner, lover, husband, son, son-in-law, brother-in-law, uncle and now father-to-be. He was as much hers and she was his. The thought no longer something feared, but fully embraced. And with it came peace, comfort and absolute joy.

Father-to-be, her mind circled around. Girl or boy? Dreamer or realist? Optimist or pragmatist? Prone to flights of fancy or mired in logic? She had no idea. What she knew beyond any doubt is their child would be raised to never fear love, to trust in deeds, to use words with great care. Their child would never be left to feel wanting, less than. Their child would never, not for a moment, question who they were, what they were.

Their child. The idea sent goosebumps skittering down her spine

Her reverie was interrupted by said father of that child arriving home, to drop several bags of groceries on the kitchen counter, next to where she was standing. A quick brush of his lips to hers, and without a word said, he departed, only to return with another armful of bags, then another, and another, before at last pressing a single white bag into her hands and leaning in to kiss her again.

"What's all this?" Laura asked, flabbergasted. A weekly trip to the market usually entailed four, maybe five bags, not a dozen and a half. She received no response, as she reached into the first bag pulling out a loaf of bread. She looked up to find him standing watching her, hands in his pockets, shifting from foot-to-foot and a silly lopsided smile on his face. Damn. "Don't go there, Remington," she warned, frowning as she pulled out a second loaf of bread.

"I've no idea what you mean," he replied, smile only widening. Stepping away from the counter, she planted her hands on her hip and tilted up her chin.

"Need I remind you it took the two of us to get me pregnant? You didn't do this all on your own, big guy." He shifted from foot-to-foot again.

"Of course, I didn't," he agreed, easily enough.

"Then wipe that smarmy grin off your face, get any idea of telling everyone and anyone I'm pregnant out of your head, and let's unpack these groceries," she ordered, returning her attention to the bags. He frowned at her back but did as requested. When she removed four more loaves of bread from the bag, she gave him a curious look.

"Dr. Kerr didn't specify what type of toast," he shrugged. Her laughter bubbled up when she watched him pull several selections of crackers out of the bag he was unpacking.

"Let me guess…" He shrugged, a smile again lifting the corners of his lips.

"Believe me, love, you've no idea the number of varieties of breads and crackers there are until a doctor fails to tell you which type to buy. Did the tea stay down?" A look of surprise crossed her face.

"It did." He nodded.

"Ginger tea. I bought plenty more," he noted as he unpacked the next bag, "Along with peppermint and chamomile should it not continue to work." His eyes flicked to her and rested there. "Think you might be up to trying a bite to eat?" She considered the question and shook her head.

"I don't know. I'm still queasy, but I'm hungry." He nodded.

"Then what say we begin you with a little more tea, and I'll put together an omelet, no cheese or milk, of course, and some toast and we'll see what happens? Hmmmm?" Hesitantly, she agreed.

They worked in tandem finding a home for the groceries as Remington set water on to boil. By the time he had the ingredients for omelet and toast on the counter, Laura perched nearby, cup of tea in hand. He spent prep, cooking time, and the meal filling her in on all he'd done in England while they were apart. Only after she managed to get down a slice of toast and a few bites of omelet, did they clean up and retire to the hammock on the terrace. They lay in silence for a bit, simply enjoying a weekend tradition they'd not had enough of lately.

"Laura," Remington said her name, daring to breech the quiet. He shifted his head so he could look down at her. "Tell me, where's your mind at on the news?" She tilted her head back to look at him.

"Stunned, scared," she said thoughtfully before a smile lifted her lips, "Happy, excited. You?"

"The same." He rolled her to her back, he on his side, and eased her shirt from under the waistband of her pants as she silently laughed. Laying his splayed hand upon her abdomen, he shook his head in awe. "Our child, Laura. In there, right now."

"So it would seem," she agreed, laughing softly, ruffing his hair, then letting her hand rest there to play. She imagined she'd have to be prepared for many days and evenings ahead similar to this: her skin bared, his hand resting over where their child grew. For a man who used touch to connect, to feel truly present, he'd need the same with their child before it was even born.

"I want to know the whole of it, all you feel." He leaned back his head to look down at her, his eyes avid. "I don't imagine you can feel him or her yet, elsewise you wouldn't have been as shocked as I. But do you feel differently?"

"Other than the stomach flu that was morning sickness, at least the last couple of days?" she asked. He nodded solemnly at her. Pursing her lips, she lifted her eyes upward, as she gave it serious thought. Her eyes met his again, as her fingers plucked at the ends of his hair. "My breasts have been tender, which I wrote off to the car accident." She frowned. "Although that would explain my right breast but not my left." She thought further, then shook her head. "Other than that, no. I feel exactly as I always do." Shifting carefully again, they spooned together, a hand still resting against her stomach.

"A year ago, Laura. Only a year ago we were trying to figure out how to move forward, both of us wanting to, both of us terrified of doing just that. And now? Married, a home—"

"A father," she interrupted to add. He nodded his head behind her.

"The Agency growing. A child," he said the last in quiet disbelief.

"And a lot of things to prepare, don't forget that, Mr. Steele," she reminded him. "A nursery here and at the Agency to plan and design. Cribs, car seats, changing tables, clothing, diapers to buy and who knows what else?"

"Most important among them all, names to choose," he reminded her, nuzzling the top of her head with his chin. Her brows raised in surprise as she tangled her fingers with the hand resting on her stomach.

"Names? It seems to me we already know the names, don't we?" she asked, thinking back to the days in Greece when nightmares still plagued her, and he'd shared his dreams of the future with her.


"…named after the most supportive woman of your childhood and the only woman in my childhood that mourned the loss of me."

"Olivia Elena…"


"The maiden name of the woman who has inspired me since the day we first met…"

"Holt… Holt Steele…"


"Names created in dreams, nothing more," he pointed out. She shrugged her shoulders against him. "Do you really like them?" he asked, his surprised pleasure dancing through his words.

"I do," she quietly confirmed, smiling as a bit of his Irish brogue weaved through his speech. "They're solid names, rooted in a great deal of meaning for both of us." She yawned deeply, as he bussed her on top of the head.

"Our son is noticeably lacking a middle name, in that case, Mrs. Steele," he commented. She nodded her head beneath his chin.

"I have an idea for that," she informed him as she settled herself more fully against him.

"Oh? Do tell." He lifted a brow in curiosity, while chuckling silently, recognizing in her movement, the sound of her voice, sleep was about to steal her away.

"You've honored all Daniel was to you with your middle name. I think our son's other grandfather, his birthright, should be honored in his name," she hinted. He chewed on this for a moment, then eyes and face lit with a smile.

"Fitzgerald?" he ventured. She hummed her confirmation. "Holt Fitzgerald Steele," he tried it on for size. "With a name such as that, he'll have a lot to live up to, Mrs. Steele. Think he'll be up for it?"

"I do, Mr. Steele. I really do." She yawned again. "He will, after all, have his father to teach him how to not only live up to a name, but become greater than it." He stilled against her, his heart skipping then pounding at the words she'd spoken.

"My God, love, the things you say at times," he breathed.

"Only when they're true," she retorted sleepily, then sighed, and allowed herself to slip away.

Remington stayed close until he was certain sleep would cling to her, then carefully eased her to her back, before sliding from the hammock. Snatching an afghan off a chaise, he covered her with it, then departed the house. So much to do, so much to learn, indeed, and an idea of where to begin had formulated. He left the house with Laura none the wiser.


Remington had pulled a chair from the table over to sit in front of the hammock and with sketchbook in hand, whiled away the time until Laura woke from her extended nap. He'd already run his errand, had a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup warming on the stove, and a pot of ginger tea hot and ready for her when she woke. He'd thought to capture their reactions to hearing their child's heartbeat on paper while every nuance was still fresh in his mind. The rough sketch had long been complete, and he was now refining the piece with a bit of blending and refining of content. When she began to stir, he stood and retrieved a cup of tea for each of them from the kitchen

Laura's eyes blinked open, and, as was her habit, she quickly took in her surroundings. Stretching, she reached backward to run her hands through her hair, only to find it still back in the French braid from that morning. Her brows furrowed when her brain registered Remington was now sitting in a chair by the hammock and not laying with her in it.

"What happened to your desire to laze away an afternoon in the hammock, Mr. Steele?" He chuckled softly, offering her a hand down from the hammock, then led her towards one of the chaises. Reclining against it, he waited she settled herself between his legs, then handed her one of the cups of tea from the small table positioned between the two chaises.

"Even I, Mrs. Steele, find a four-and-a-half hour nap, absent… vigorous exercise," he leaned to the side a bit so she could see the waggle of his brows, "A bit excessive." She looked at him with undisguised surprise.

"I slept that long?" He nodded, then gave a look to her tea, a hint she should drink.

"You did. An indication, I'd say, that you've quite overdone it in the last week or so." She ignored the gentle reproach, and took a sip of her tea.

"What time is it?"

"A hair after four-thirty." She stood with cup of tea in hand.

"I need to call the office. I won't be long," she told him. He resisted the impulse to grab her hand and pull her back down, to assure her the office could take care of itself for one day. Instead, he stood to follow. Grabbing the handset from the wall mount, she crossed to the living room and sat down on the couch before dialing, then took another sip of the tea while waiting on the phone to ring on the other side.

"The Remington Steele Agency. How can I help you?" Bernice's voice wafted over the lines.

"Bernice, it's Laura," she announced.

"Hey, Laura," Bernice greeted, her tone moving from that of the professional to friend. "Feeling any better?" Laura gave the question then raised her brows in surprise. Not only had both servings of tea stayed down throughout the day, but so had toast and omelet.

"Actually, a lot better," she answered. "Listen, I need a full background done. I want everything that can be found. Juvenile record, adult, if there is one. Last known addresses. Relatives. Any stays in foster care. The whole gamut."

"Name?" Bernice inquired, while Remington watched with avid interest from his seat nearby Laura on the couch.

"Two names, actually. Violet Martin and Penny DesCoine." Remington's brows raised at that.

"Age?" Bernice returned. Laura gave that some thought. Minor couldn't have been any more than eighteen and no younger than fourteen when she and Remington had first made her acquaintance.

"Seventeen to twenty-two. That's the best I can do." At the Agency, Bernice scribbled the information on the pad in front of her.

"I'll get started as soon as we hang up. I'll see if Mildred can give me a hand since I'm still learning the ropes." Laura nodded her head.

"Good idea. Any messages for myself or Mr. Steele?" Setting down her pen, Bernice picked up a stack of pink papers.

"Several," Bernice confirmed, "But only two that really stand out. Monroe for either him or yourself. The next two stores are ready for inspection. For you, Joshua Meyerson called. He has some information for you. That's all he'd say."

"Alright, I'll call him as soon as I hang up. Is Murph there?" She was wondering if he'd made any progress on the Morton case.

"Left an hour ago," Bernice told her. "He has a lead on Carstairs' current address. Said if it pans out, the two of you can speak with him together on Monday."

"What do our schedules look like on Monday?" Laura inquired.

"I've cleared out his schedule until one so he can inspect the last two installments, and get the lay of the land at the next stores," Bernice began to efficiently fill her in. "From one until three he's booked solid with new client meetings. Three until five, interviews with four of the applicants still standing. Your schedule the same during that time. For you, accountant at eight, ten-thirty until one left open for you and Murphy to work the Morton case. At one, an appointment with Johnson, two-thirty with Kellogg, to fill them in on the findings of their skip traces… both complete, by the way, files waiting on your desk. Mildred needs time with you to go over the asset trace she's been working on, so I've penciled her in from one-thirty until two-thirty, then at two-thirty a new client meeting, another missing person to locate." Laura nodded her head. They'd both hit the ground running Monday morning it seemed.

"Thanks, Bernice. I'll see you on Monday." Disconnecting the line, she stood again, to face Remington's curious look. "I'll fill you in after we call Meyerson," she told him. "And since I'm sure we'll both want to be on that call, let's go upstairs, okay? My files are next to the bed anyway." With a nod, he followed her with hand on small of her back.

"My schedule? What's it looking like?" She smirked at him.

"Let's just say, you'll want to get plenty of rest this weekend." He'd counted on as much, but for the sake of form, groaned in dismay.

"Really, Laura, is it too much to ask that a man be permitted to wade back into the grind after such along break?" he groused.

"You'll survive, Mr. Steele," she answered airily. "But I suppose…" she drew out the last word, "If it's too much for you, I could take on some extra duties. Go in earlier, stay later." He was about to take her up on what was clearly a dare, when a thought occurred to him and he barked a laugh.

"Ah, I see. That's how this is going to work then, is it?" he asked, bemused. "Should I try to slow you down whilst carrying our child, you'll lob my head off. But, on the other hand, when it's to your favor, you'll use the need to get plenty of rest against me, eh?"

"All's fair," she answered jauntily, with a small laugh of her own.

Sitting down on the bed, Laura handed Remington the portable phone, then lifted handset from cradle on the phone next to the bed. Tapping in Meyerson's number, once the phone began to ring on the other side, she nodded at him, and he depressed the 'talk' button on the portable.

"Good afternoon. Law offices of Grant, Jacoby, Meyerson, Barcliff. How may I be of assistance?" announced the terse voice of a gravely throated woman.

"Laura Steele, returning Joshua Meyerson's call," Laura provided.

"Please hold." And before another word could be spoken, muzak was filling their ears.

"Chatty sort," Remington observed, dryly. He'd no sooner uttered the words than the line was picked up again.

"Mrs. Steele, thank you for returning my call," Joshua Meyerson's friendly tenor greeted her.

"Of course. Remington's on the line as well," she advised.

"Well, my contact has gotten back to me with the information you inquired after, but I'm afraid there's… confusion amid the ranks of the INS again," he forewarned.

"Oh, how so?" Remington asked.

"Lydia Van Owen aka Anna Simpson was released into the custody of Anthony Roselli, at the direction of a court order. The warden of the prison has told the INS after a cursory look at the order, it stated Van Owen was to be deported back to Switzerland where she would serve out her sentence in full." Meyerson took a breath then plowed ahead. "From what the INS is able to determine, a court order to that extent was never issued, Roselli was never assigned to Van Owen's case at any point, and a search of manifests both domestic and overseas fail to show Van Owen, by either name." His words confirmed Remington's biggest fears

"So, what you're saying to us is: Anna is out there, God only knows where, and at any moment could attempt to finish what she began," Remington summarized tightly, a hand raking through his hair.

"I wish I had better news," Meyerson apologized, sincerely.

"I dare say, so do we," Remington clipped. Laying a hand on Remington's thigh, Laura took over the remainder of the call.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Meyerson. We do appreciate it," Laura told him, graciously.

"Anytime, Mrs. Steele. Although, for your sake, I hope you won't need my assistance in the future. Have a good day."

Dropping her receiver on the cradle, Laura took the handheld from Remington's hands and depressed the 'end' button. Getting to her feet, she began unbuttoning her blouse as she walked towards the bathroom. He turned on the bed to watch her.

"Laura, we need to talk about this," he told her. She paused and looked at him.

"Not right this second, we don't," she disagreed. "We're home, together, no one is going to come after us here. The way I see it, the only thing I need to do right now is to soak in a warm bath, preferably with my husband." She dropped her shirt to the floor pointedly, then reached for the hooks of her bra. "A wise man would take me up on the offer, because who knows how long it will be before I don't feel up to it again." With that, she slipped the bra from her shoulders and it followed her shirt to the floor.

He knew what she was about, distracting him, as it were. But no man could call Remington Steele a fool. He stood to follow, his fingers deftly freeing the buttons of his shirt as he went.